The tumult, damn!
Can you discern it, breathe it , the chicanery ?
The rasps within, alas!
Can you see these cuts ? The ones arcane under my skin.
Its so loud , the silence , where to scrutinise the soul?
Unsheathed fatal knife of god has bequeathed the soul with no hope, slithering with no clasp.
This solicitousness marring in silhouettes and what left is a bared body in a questioning milieu.
“Calluses begat by gripping left no hope to win the backing”